History 101
by TaekwondoAssKicking
Summary: A new secret organization has sprung up, and, for some reason, has set its sights on some high school in the US—the same institution his twin sister works at. Now, it is up to genius Special Agent Alfred F. Jones of the FBI to find out just what they're up to by going undercover as a history teacher. Luckily, his natural idiotic charm will make things easier. Or not.
1. The Most Ridiculous Person Ever

**Plot Summary:** _ **A new secret organization has sprung up, and, for some reason, has set its sights on some high school in the US—the same institution his twin sister works at. Now, it is up to genius Special Agent Alfred F. Jones of the FBI to find out just what they're up to . . . and protect the students. Luckily, his natural idiotic charm will make things easier. Or not. The students and some of the staff aren't very receptive of the new US History teacher, Mr. Jones. He was good at undercover work. Too good, even.**_

 **The Most Ridiculous Person Ever**

Special Agent Jones was a ridiculous person, in many different aspects.

For one, he acted no better than a child. He was loud, idiotic, obnoxious, oblivious, optimistic, and seemed to carry with him a hero complex wherever he went. In short, he was an energetic ball of bouncy immatureness. Alfred F. Jones was not what people would call 'the sharpest tool in the shed,' and his knowledge of the world was limited at best. He sure was a piece of work.

Of course, that's what folks perceived—how could they not, with that kind of personality? Now, here is where the ridiculousness that is Alfred starts: the man was a prodigy.

He had college degrees in History, English, Computer Programming, and Computer Engineering. He could speak fluently in English (duh), Spanish, French, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and Arabic, in addition to bits and pieces of Pashto. He was ridiculously smart, having graduated high school by the age of fourteen and attended two institutions of higher education: Oxford University (yes, _the_ Oxford University, the one in Great Britain) which he graduated from when he turned eighteen, and the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, which he completed at age twenty-one. From there, Alfred served six years of active duty in the marines, with several tours of duty in both Iraq and Afghanistan, climbing up the ladder and reaching the rank of Sergeant. Alfred was honorably discharged at age twenty-seven on account of injury, of which he has almost fully recovered from. During the last year or so, Alfred has spent his time working for the FBI's bomb disposal squad, easily becoming one of the very best—in a subtle way, so to speak.

And that was why the individual known as Alfred F. Jones (Alfred Fucking Jones, to most) was a ridiculous being. The man acted like an idiot, yet he was so much more. Special Agent Jones liked being underestimated. It made things . . . interesting. He was also forced to grow up too fast, so now whatever superior he was assigned under had to suffer the consequences.

"HAHAHA I'M THE HERO!"

"Jones! Get off my desk!"

"Only if you give me back my ice cream."

"JONES!"

And that's that.

 **A/N: Penny for your thougts?**


	2. The Call

_**I don't own Hetalia or any other references pertaining to other works.  
**_

 **The Call**

Alfred squinted, looking within the metal body full of garbled wires of different colors, hands holding what looked like to be a metal lid of sorts. Someone's iPhone laid by him, giving him a source of light.

A digital clock read 5:37, seconds counting backwards.

"S-sir?" a frightened male voice asked from underneath. Alfred looked down; a group of people clung to one another, faces pale with fear. They were all stuffed in one of the small room's corners, trying and failing in putting as much distance as possible between them and the bomb. Two business men, one businesswoman, a janitor, a little girl, and a cart full of cleaning supplies was all Alfred could see from his own vantage point.

They were all trapped in an elevator, which was stuck somewhere in the twentieth floor of a large corporation building. Alfred wasn't in with them, instead taking residence up on the elevator's roof.

Alfred gave them all what he hoped to be a comforting smile—he knew when to act the idiot and when to be the soldier. And, right now, at that moment, acting the idiot would cause a mass panic, which would be a _very_ very _bad_ thing. This was a calibrated bomb, one that if the two liquids within the tube were to be disturbed and accidentally on purpose mixed, the end results would be, well, catastrophic. Boom. Even breathing too loudly could disturb it. Well, not really, but it was a sensitive system. A _very_ sensitive, highly balanced system that must not, under any circumstances, be touched.

It was a wonder that they hadn't all been blown to bits by now. Alfred hadn't exactly made a careful appearance. He hadn't been in the elevator when it stopped; when the first explosion went off, he had immediately ran towards it (while the rest ran _away,_ like the normal people they were) and stopped only to join a small group of security personnel. All Alfred did was flash his badge, and was instantaneously accepted, as he also introduced himself as being a bomb disabling specialist.

In no time, they found out what had happened; a small bomb had gone off, cutting the chords that sustained one of the elevators. Once they pried the elevator's doors open, they immediately contacted the people trapped within. Through careful instructions delivered by Alfred himself, one of the businessmen found and dismantled a small section of the roof, finding an emergency door.

It was then that the second bomb was discovered.

Due to the panic caused by the first explosion, 911 was slow to respond. They had no time left. So, he did the only thing he could do—he pulled off an Alfred. Long story short, Alfred ninja'd himself down, Assassins Creed style. Hey, it wasn't as if they had any rope, so yeah. Alfred was a master at quick-thinking improvisation—not that he'd thought things through initially, instincts developed when he was abroad taking over.

At least Alfred got his heroic entrance, Spiderman style. It had been awesome.

Three minute left until blast off. Alfred gently laid the metal lid down on the surface of the elevator—very slowly, very carefully. He re-adjusted the blue and grey sleeves of his flannel collared shirt tightly at his elbows. The white T-shirt he had underneath swayed at the cool, invisible breeze, as did his hair and the rest of his clothing. He gave the opened up metallic box of doom The Look.

Good thing that everywhere he goes, his handy dandy pocket knife always went with him.

 _So much for getting the day off,_ Alfred snorted with amusement, unfolding the red-white-and-blue pocket knife. _Now, where is that green wire?_

First, the green wire must be cut. If he cut the wrong wire at the wrong time—BOOM! Adiós to at least three floors, small elevator lodged in the building's esophagus included. If they didn't burn, then they more than likely would crash to their imminent deaths—twenty floors was hella high.

 _Ah, there it is!_ Alfred cut the green wire—the neon green one, as opposed to the slightly darker green one. One second. Yepp. Right wire was cut. _Now, seeing as this is an upgrade of that other earlier model . . ._ Alfred snipped the blue wire and one of the yellow wires. He took the end of the yellow wire and the end of the green wire and connected them by spinning and twisting the inside wires together. The red wire was cut. So far so good.

His cell phone started vibrating. Alfred casually slid it out of his jean's back pocket.

"Helloooo~?" he answered chirply.

" _Um . . . Hello, Al."_

The voice was soft, sweet, and feminine. Very quiet. Alfred grinned radiantly, mood lifting.

"Maddy! Long time no talk. What's up, sis?"

From below him, Alfred could swear that he heard someone curse and another exclaim a protest that questioned his sanity. Heh. Funny. Where did the tube go?

" _I . . . well, I, um, you see—"_

Alfred frowned as he heard his twin sister fumble for words. What was wrong? And, seriously, where did that tube go? It was _right there._

"Just shoot, sis. I don't bite," he lightly joked. _Unless someone is threatening you. Then I'll bite so hard no one will ever find that person's remains. Ever._ "Is everything OK over at your end?" His tone was still joking, but it held a note of seriousness. Madeline, who had always been able to sense her brother's mood, was quick to appease him.

" _Oh, everything is good—more than good, actually—but, uh, well . . ."_

"AHA!" Everyone in the immediate vicinity jumped at the spontaneously loud proclamation. "Found it, the little fucker!"

The damn tube was hiding behind two garbled up balls of wires that were attempting to pass off as dust bunnies.

" _Ehhhhhhhhh? Al!"_

Alfred blinked. Oops.

"Sorry, sis." He didn't sound sorry at all. "What's wrong, really?"

Another wire was cut, the timer freezing at 1:04. The wire connecting to the tube was effectively severed, and the tube itself was carefully withdrawn from the metal box. Success, hell yeah!

" _Are you even listening to me, eh?"_

"Nope." he stated bluntly. "Please repeat?"

"Oh God, we're all going to die."

Alfred shh'd the speaker, one of the stranded elevatorees.

"Say again, sis? I'm listening." He placed the tube on top of the metal lid. While it was true that if the substances were to mix (now) they all wouldn't turn into marshmallows shoved head-first into a campfire, the liquids within the tube were still highly toxic. He really didn't want to accidentally pour skin removal all over himself. Not awesome.

" _Something fishy is going on, eh. I-I don't know what, but I have a bad feeling, Al. A really bad one."_

Alfred frowned. That . . . didn't sound good.

" _I'm worried for the students."_

Alfred frowned deeply. Maddy sounded _really_ worried.

"I'll pass it by my superiors."

Over the line, Maddy let out a deep sigh of relief.

" _Oh thank Dieu . . . Merci, Alfred! Merci beaucoup."_

Alfred smiled. "Pas de problème, sœur."

Maddy laughed breathlessly. _"I keep forgetting you can speak French, frère."_

He snorted, getting himself in a more comfortable position by moving over by the edge, feet dangling.

"Well, we _did_ grow up in the same household, ma sœur~!"

Maddy snorted. Something suddenly occurred to Alfred.

"Hold on a sec, Maddy." He pressed the phone against his chest, and leaned back, looking down through the opening.

"Yo dudes, the bomb is dead. So calm down a bit, yeah? Awesome!"

The people gaped up at him, disbelievingly. They were on their knees, probably trying to sell off their first born to Satan or something.

" _Alfred?"_

"Yeah?"

" _. . . Are you doing something dangerous again?"_

Alfred pouted.

"You know what I do for a living, Madds. Danger is sort of an occupational hazard." Of course, what Alfred neglected to say was that this was technically his day off. He went to McDonald's for a snack and there so happened to be this big shiny building right across from it (and he was somewhat bored) so he decided to go check it out, go annoy some people, see how long would it take for him to get kicked out. The usual.

Maddy sighed, breath blowing into the speaker. _"First the army and now this. I've already received five MIAs and one KIA from the government, eh? You are going to be the death of me."_

Alfred grinned. "Don't worry sis! I'm too stupid to die, remember?" Alfred's voice caught at the last statement. They didn't exactly have a very nice childhood, what with they being an unpleasant surprise left by a one-night stand encounter. They lived in a good house, a good life, but that didn't mean that they were happy. Mother never wanted them, a fact she made sure her children knew.

At least one good thing came out of it. Too stupid to die was his personal motto, and Maddy knew it—which is why she laughed, although sadly.

" _Honestly, Al. You're truly too good for this world."_

Alfred grimaced; oh, if only Maddy knew the things he did . . . he shook his head.

"You think too highly of me." Maddy was the only one he could be honest to—if anything, _she_ was the one that was too good for this world. Oh, she wasn't innocent—her innocence was marred long ago by mother—and she was a downright terrifying sight when hockey season rolled around—but that was it, wasn't it? She chose to be kind to everyone, to care.

Unlike Alfred, who chose to be a living headache. Not his fault if that was waaaaay more fun.

"HEY!" a loud voice echoed down the shaft. "RESCUE SHOULD BE HERE ANY SECOND NOW, SO HOLD ON!"

Alfred's eyebrow twitched. About freakin' time!

" _. . . Do I even want to know, eh?"_

Alfred smirked. "Nope."

"Uh," came a tentative voice from inside the elevator. "Can I have my iPhone back please . . . ?"

The voice was promptly ignored.

 **A/N: Character analysis anyone?**


	3. Qualified

**Qualified**

Contrary to popular belief, Alfred did in fact have _some_ manners. Granted, some things he would never be able to shake off no thanks to the military (where his obedience had been top notch—he'd been the perfect soldier, no questions asked) but at least now he could have a little self-autonomy, which he enjoyed maybe a bit too much. Still, Alfred had to make use of some of the basic manners people instill into you when growing up—such as knocking before entering an office.

Which is exactly what Alfred did. He knocked, each rasp delivered with precision and an ample amount of authority, waited a beat, then entered.

His supervisor blinked, probably not having expected his presence.

" . . . You know how to knock."

OK, so Alfred had a habit of barging in whenever. He just needed to be in his boss' good graces, OK?

Alfred grinned brightly. "Why yes, sir!" Alfred always referred to his superiors as 'sir,' no exceptions. "Thought I'd give it a try! Cuz that's what HEROES do! HAHAHA!"

His supervisor, Special Agent Homer, pinched the bridge of his nose, looking for all intent and purposes as if he were trying to ward off a particularly nasty headache.

"What do you want, Special Agent Jones? I've got paperwork to fill out—all that commotion over at Large Corp. and Sons is really taking all of my time."

Ah, yes. That. The media was pressuring just about everyone for them to release his name and picture—except, Alfred didn't feel like it. That would mean interviews, of which Alfred didn't have time for. It was BBC marathon this week, as well as the superhero special, and he wasn't about to go miss marathoning on Merlin and Green Arrow anytime soon. He also had reports to write and paperwork to fill out. In addition to that, he was also on call 24/7.

"It'll be quick n' swift, sir~!"

Special Agent Homer glared at him, no doubt wondering why Alfred wouldn't just own up and face the spotlight—a thought that seemed very oxymoronious indeed. It was a well-known fact that Special Agent Jones loved to be the center of attention.

"Let's hear it out, then—just be quick about it."

Alfred nodded enthusiastically, before diving in on what his sister said . . .

What happened was very interesting. Once Alfred mentioned the name of the school his sister worked at and its location, Special Agent Homer seemed to freeze.

Alfred noticed instantaneously, having been trained in the art of reading body language.

"Sir?"

"Ah, nothing."

He was also trained in the art of interrogation.

Alfred smiled.

At that moment, the phone rang.

"Please step out for a second, Agent."

 _Psh. Saved by the bell, eh?_

Alfred was not invited back in. Regardless, he had a feeling . . .

He was highly tempted to hack the FBI's secret out-of-the-way backup database—the one he definitely did _not_ know about—but decided against it. At least, for now.

 **OoooOoooOoooO**

Turns out, Alfred was right. Three days later, his patience was rewarded; they were all called to a meeting, FBI Agents and then some. Alfred sat down on one of the chairs that were brought out, choosing to sit at the very back, in a corner, where he could see everyone in the room. Paranoid? Hell yeah. A healthy amount of paranoia never killed anyone.

Agents started filing in, some individually, others with some friends, quietly talking to one another.

Alfred got comfortable.

In no time, the whole room was full. The head of the FBI, Special Agent Hughes, stepped up behind the podium. He cleared his throat. Everyone fell silent.

"It has come to our attention that a new organization that goes by the name 'Roanoke' has sprung up in the country."

Oh? Interesting. Roanoke. As, in, one of America's oldest mysteries? In which a group of English colonists disappeared without a trace? Good name choice—Alfred would have to give them that.

"We are not entirely sure what their main goal is, but recently, they have been moving around the country, contacting other underground organizations."

They were called Roanoke. Shouldn't that be a clue as to what this group was up to? Honestly. Or maybe they just liked the name—who knew? Either way, they smelled like trouble.

"We believe that they are stocking up on ammo, and the U.S. Government has decided to give them possible terrorist status."

The crowd stirred, whispers and questions springing up. Now that actually alarmed Alfred. Not good.

"KEEPing tabs on them," he started, trying to muffle out the noise, "has proven to be difficult. This issue has recently come to our attention, although we know not how long they've been doing whatever it is they are attempting to accomplish."

More reason to be worried.

His Conflict Senses were tingling.

"Moreover, we as a nation are trying our best to keep a leash on them. Up until now, this information was classified, but the higher ups in the White House have decided to brief everyone the basics. The President himself is interested," there were some whispers at that, "so I hope your best effort is put in tracking down and apprehending these individuals. For now, though, we are focusing on information gathering; we must first identify and uncover what these criminals are up to. They aren't a threat—yet. So we must move fast—faster than them." He looked at them all—Alfred thought that his gaze stayed on a particular group of Agents a little longer than most—and concluded: "Be on alert. More than likely, you will be assigned cases that are related or suspected of being related to Roanoke. A select few of you may even be tasked with larger, more sensitive cases." Here, Special Agent Hughes gave the crowd a nod. "With that said—meeting adjourned."

He disappeared as quickly as he came, strutting away with a manila folder under his arm.

Well that happened.

Alfred got up and stretched—conversations had broken all around him. He straightened his suit, and casually beelined out of the room.

They didn't enjoy his company anyway.

Lucky him, when he crossed from one end of the hallway to the other, he walked into a hushed discussion between Special Agents Hughes and Homer.

"Yo."

They paused, then just plain out stared at him.

Ooooookaaaaaaay?

 _Did I just interrupt something?_

"Uh, I'll just, uh, let you guys finish your secret conversation. Laters!"

 _Definitely interrupted something._

He continued past them, making his way towards the stairs, when—

"Wait. Come here." That was Hughes' voice.

Alfred came to a complete halt, firmly planting his feet into the ground. He swiftly turned around, and with military precision, marched up to the duo, curiosity eating away at him.

"Sirs?" he asked. They seemed surprised at his newfound militaristic grace. Homer blinked at him confusedly, while Hughes studied him in a very calculating manner.

"I've . . . seen your face, somewhere. What are your qualifications, Agent?"

Alfred cocked his head.

"You are probably mistaken, Edward. He is under my division and . . ." Special Agent Homer grappled for a kinder word, before settling on ". . . not qualified."

Hughes was still staring at Alfred. Alfred stood firmly, unmoving, hands resting behind his back. His expression, though, was one of amusement and curiosity.

". . . What is your name, Agent?"

"I am Special Agent Jones—Alfred F. Jones to some and Alfred Fucking Jones to most, sir!" Alfred did not waste time introducing himself, mirth in his azure blue eyes, the light tugging of a smirk ghosting over his lips.

Homer face-palmed.

Hughes blinked. Then, apprehension dawned on his face.

"Yes . . . You look exactly alike—her maiden name was Jones, if I remember correctly," the elder mumbled to himself. "Agent, any relation to a Madeline Williams of Hetatown, Maine?"

Alfred stiffened, eyes narrowed dangerously. Both men suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"She's my sister . . . sir."

Hughes nodded.

Homer cleared his throat; "It was through Jones' connection to his sister that we discovered . . ." here, he shot Alfred a quick glance, making a hand motion "you know."

"Ah. Is that so?"

Homer nodded.

"So he's directly involved?"

Homer went from semi-passive to scandalized in about a second. "This is a highly sensitive case, Edward!"

"But you said so yourself—we got the base to our current knowledge thanks to him. He knows something."

"He's not qualified!"

"He's _so_ qualified!"

Both men turned to look at Alfred so fast, he wouldn't be surprised if they got whiplash. Alfred grinned innocently.

"You believe to be qualified enough, Agent Jones?" Hughes asked gruffly, eyeing the young man in front of him. Homer gave him an incredulous look.

Alfred flashed them a winning smile. He wanted to know whatever the hell was going down in his sister's town of residence. Instead of responding, he asked a question of his own, one whose answer he knew . . . but didn't want to believe.

"Does it have something to do with that new terrorist organization?" Alfred asked sweetly, smile plastered on his face. _No one puts my sister in danger and gets away with it._

They stiffened. Jackpot.

Alfred's smile disappeared, replaced with a look so serious it was unsettling. Homer, at that moment, thought that _that_ was the most unnatural thing to ever grace the planet. An Alfred without an idiotic smile was a preposterous thought.

"I want in."

Hughes frowned. "But, are you qualified?" he asked once again.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Depends. I don't know what the hell is exactly going on, sir." Alfred was sure he was qualified enough for whatever—he was always qualified enough when it came to the safety of his country—and especially his twin sister. "And should we even be doing this out here in the middle of the hall?" he casually bemused.

They blinked, turning to look at one another.

"Ah, yes . . . there's an office we could use here . . ." said Homer, somewhat unsettled.

They entered the office adjacent to where they had been standing.

No one sat down.

Hughes did not waste a beat.

"Do you have experience with undercover work?"

"He hasn't been here for more than a year! And he disables _bombs,_ which has a distinct policy for undercover work! Jones has no experience—"

Hughes silenced him with a raised hand.

"Jones?" he asked.

Alfred gave them a casual shrug,

"Well, there was this time when I had to go undercover as a tourist? Does that count?"

Hughes cocked his head. "That's . . . something. Continue."

"It's sort of classified . . .?"

He'd rather not talk about the time he had to over-tan himself to a crisp, dye his hair black, and perfect his use of the Arabic language. He had been an Arabic tourist on vacation in the capital of Iraq, 'sightseeing.' Now _that_ had been an interesting ordeal! Oooh the squirmishes and near-misses~

Oh, and there was also that time when—

" _Classified?_ " Homer exploded. Alfred blinked.

"Yeppers. It was a four-month job." It had originally been a three-month job, but complications arose. Stupid handler. Stupid flammable instructions. Stupid ISIS.

Hughes gave him an incredulous look. "I am definitely going to have a look at your file, Agent."

Alfred grinned.

"Awesome. Then you'll see I am totally qualified!"

Hughes turned to Homer. "New blood or transfer?"

Homer paused. "I never actually bothered to check. He came in through the system, though," he was quick to add.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Transfer, duh."

Both men gave him inquisitive looks.

Que to awkward silence.

The bespectacled man huffed.

"So are ya gonna brief me, or am I gonna hafta hack into the secret FBI database that technically doesn't exist?" Alfred crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised high in the air.

 _After all, I am_ very _qualified._

 **A/N: Tell me, what is your favorite Alfred Moment so far? Quoting or general paraphrasing is encouraged.**


	4. The Impromptu Interview

**The Impromptu Interview**

"I am _so_ not qualified for this!" groaned one Alfred F. Jones.

He stared at the paperwork that laid before him, trying very hard to make it disappear. No such luck so far. He groaned once again, slumping, face hitting the mahogany dining room table with a resounding thud.

His sister, Maddy, rolled her eyes.

"I thought your supervisor said that you were _over_ -qualified."

Alfred snorted. "I believe the term he used was 'bringing a nuclear weapon to a stick fight,' or something like that." It had actually been quite amusing to watch, seeing their faces gradually change from mildly curious to downright _the hell_ the more they read his file. Or, at least, the bits that weren't covered up in black ink. Which was admittedly 86% of the _very ultra long_ file.

Maddy rolled her violet eyes once more. Alfred's body seemed to go limp over the table.

"Al, you are never going to finish if you continue to do . . . whatever the maple you're doing, eh."

Alfred made an odd noise at the back of his throat, refusing to look up.

Maddy pulled out a chair for herself and sat beside her brother at the table. Worry bit at her, and it showed.

". . . Al?" she asked, unsure.

"Hmmm?"

"What's—what's going on?"

Alfred peaked at his sister. "Nothing." His head went back to its intimate connection with the table.

Maddy's violet eyes narrowed.

"Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, don't you dare say it's nothing!" Maddy slammed the palms of her hands against the table, hard; Alfred didn't stir. " _You_ are _here_ , therefore _something_ is most definitely _wrong!_ " Silence. Maddy waited for a response, even a twitch, but got nothing. She sighed, deep and long. "Your . . . _acquaintances_ have already come over and asked me a few q-questions, eh," she added quietly, her voice a whisper that had the ability to evaporate into nothing. "Don't y-you dare lie to me, Al."

Alfred tiredly propped his head against the palm of his hand, elbows on the table, azure blue eyes unmoving. His sister's display failed to move his battle-hardened heart. Besides, he had spent the last five days or so preparing, not even stopping to sleep—he had a few loose ends to tie before leaving, and it wasn't as if he could randomly pop out of nowhere knowing absolutely nothing of how the education system works.

In addition to those five days, Alfred drove nonstop to Maine. Looooong trip. Like, very long. Twelve hours plus traffic plus construction plus road rage plus epic cops-and-robbers chase . . . like who the hell robs a bank in the middle of nowhere? Nearly drove him off a damn cliff. And then he got a speeding ticket! Like, hello? The nerve! Those small-town cops were officially on his black list.

He'd just only arrived at his sister's house from the fourteen-hour long trip. So much caffeine, just what the doctor ordered.

 _Talk about highway to helling in,_ Alfred thought while suppressing yet another groan. In his mind, Alfred called the people responsible for the budget cuts a whole range of Russian and Spanish cuss words. His forehead went right back to the table. Alfred knew this would happen. Rooming with his twin had not been the brightest idea ever, in hindsight. Classified undercover work, duh. And Maddy was taking the undercover bit away. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhhh. Why must life be so complicated? He wanted to _sleep._

". . . Alfred?" Maddy poked his brother. "Are you alive?"

"No. This is his ghost talking. Please answer after the beep."

His sister regarded him in that way that was so Maddy-like. "Well that's not good." Madeline mused out loud, a frown etched on her soft features. She chanced to look at the clock. "Al. The principal will be here in fifteen minutes."

Alfred shot right up with a panicked " _What!?_ " and then proceeded to trip over the leg of his chair, successfully face-planting on the hard kitchen tile.

Nonetheless, he sprung right back up, hurriedly grabbing every bit of official-looking government paper he could find.

"Really, Al?"

"Maaaaaadddyyyy," Alfred whined, scrambling and flailing all over the place, a few papers flying. He was on the verge of a panic attack; these were important government files, dammit! Also, he couldn't butcher this up! The whole assignment could blow!

"Oui, oui, OK, Al."

 _Ding Dong~ Ding Ding Dong~_

Alfred blinked.

"Well fuck it."

He shoved the whole pile of papers under the couch.

"There." He sounded pleased with himself.

"You know, I haven't cleaned under there in a very long time."

"Good. Paperwork deserves to suffer."

 _Ding dong~ Ding Ding Dong~_

"Madds, how do I look?"

Maddy studied Alfred.

"That cowlick is as stubborn as ever."

"Good enough."

Silence.

 _Ding Dong~ Ding Ding Dong~_

"Maddy! I don't know what to do!" Alfred panicked. "I was fourteen the last time I actually did this!"

"You also did it at eighteen, eh?"

"I got in through recommendation! AND I DON'T KNOW ANY OF THE PROCEDURES FOR JOBS OUTSIDE THE MILITARY!"

"Mon dieu sacre bleu! Alfred!"

"Shit shit shit shit shit!"

"Pour être un héros militaire, vous pouvez vous être un idiot!" (1)

Much French swearing and shenanigans ensued, spilling fluently from both of their mouths.

Lots of flailing involved, too.

 **OooOooOooO**

The Principal frowned, wondering if no one was at home. Odd, since it was one of his teachers that called him, saying that there was something that she was eager to discuss.

 _CRASH!_

Romulus Vargas jumped, wide eyes turning to look at the pristine white door. What the . . . ?

Romulus was about to press the doorbell once again, but refrained to when the door was suddenly yanked open. The Principal of Hetatown High School was greeted by a blinding grin, the man who opened the door giving off waves of friendliness. He took note that the man was straightening out his tie just as he opened the door, somehow managing to also simultaneously pass a hand through blonde wheat locks in an attempt to tame them. He also noticed that he looked remarkably similar to Madeline Williams—if it weren't for the gender difference and eyes, they would look identical!

"Hello, sir! You must be Principal Vargas!" the man smiled jovially. Romulus blinked. He was promptly offered a hand; "The name's Alfred—Alfred F. Jones. I'm Maddy's brother."

Romulus took the hand and shook—he noticed that the man, Alfred, had a good, firm, confident grip.

"Nice meeting you, Alfred." It made sense that Alfred and Madeline were siblings.

Romulus made a move to enter the house—but, instead, Alfred abruptly leaned against the doorframe using his arm, poised in such a way so that his whole body—and he wasn't neither small nor short—blocked the way.

"Soo you're Maddy's boss, eh?" Romulus' eyebrows shot right up. He remembered the crash from earlier and a red flag popped up. He stared at the man suspiciously, eyes narrowed. The man's facial features did not budge, radiant smile still lighting up his face.

"Yes . . . yes I am," he answered slowly, his accented voice smooth but cautious. "Is she here? I believe we had a meeting today." Que to another suspicious, if not downright hostile stare on his part.

"HAHAHA! YOU BET!" Romulus jumped at how _loud—_ "SHE WILL BE RIGHT DOWN! VERY SOON!" Romulus was about to say something—he opened his mouth, intent on coming inside to check on one of his staff members—but he wasn't given the chance since this man started to _rant—_ "HAHAHA! She's been so busy lately, my sister. Haven't seen her in a while, so it's good to see her once again! Dunno why she decided on Maine since it's a cold place, but now I get it cuz it seems nice! I bet you guys get a lot of snow up here, perfect for building snowmen and having snowball fights! We used to do that a lot as kids, especially when we went up to Canada every now and then. Madds loves it there, she's more Canadian than anything which is weird. We share the same profession, too, so that's cool. Always knew she'd be a teacher, cuz she's always liked kids and teaching and she's reeeeaaaaal patient! Madds is an awesome person and she—"

Stomping was heard, as if someone was loudly running down the stairs. Soon enough, a slightly disheveled-looking Madeline entered Romulus' line of view—she basically came right up to her brother, taking half of the space where the door usually rested, both siblings effectively acting as a barrier.

"H-hullo, Romulus. I see you met my b-brother, Alfred."

Romulus eyed her critically—she seemed fine, if not slightly out of breath and a bit jittery. There were no visible bruises or anything . . .

"Yes . . ." And then, he saw it. The siblings shared a look—one he's seen often enough. It was a look shared when trying to hide something from an adult, a look with hidden meaning. The siblings did something—probably related to that crash he heard earlier—and were intent on keeping it under wraps. It had a 'we stole cookies from the cookie jar' feel to it. Romulus became considerably much more warmer towards the younger man.

Romulus laughed, honey-colored eyes alight with happiness and mirth. "Yes! He was telling me all sorts of things . . . you're a teacher too, you say?"

Alfred blinked, slightly taken aback at the sudden change in personality and probably not having expected him to have caught that certain bit of the rushed word vomit. Romulus smiled. One of his sons, Feliciano, was in the habit of rambling, so he was quite used to it. He was also a principal, used to dealing with all kinds of children, so there was also that.

"Yes, sir, that I am." Hmm. Alfred seemed to be the type to recover fast. A good characteristic to have.

"W-why don't we all come in? I made a p-pot of coffee—imported from Italy." Madeline imputed with a gentle smile.

Oh, now that just put him in a good mood!

"Coffee!? Yesss!" Alfred pumped his fist and scrambled to the kitchen.

Madeline sighed, though Romulus could see the fondness in both her eyes and smile. He chuckled;

"Quite the personality," he commented.

Madeline groaned. "You have no idea."

They entered, Madeline locking the door behind them. They made way to the kitchen. Were those papers under the couch . . . ?

"He may seem a bit . . . over the top, but he's very reliable. A-and qualified."

Romulus shot Madeline a look; where was this going?

Madeline sighed, a troubled look on her face.

"I'm worried about him—I can't believe he quit his job in New York. I guess the city wasn't for him after all," she commented lightly. They sat at the table—Alfred set mugs three-quarters full of coffee on it, setting sugar, milk, maple syrup, and honey in the middle. He sat himself, not touching the sweeteners.

Romulus added sugar and milk, whereas Madeline took hostage the maple syrup. They nursed their respective mugs.

Alfred cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Soo . . . you wouldn't so happen to have a vacancy at your school now . . ." Alfred coughed and quickly brought the mug of bitter liquid up to his lips, pink lightly dusting his cheeks. Romulus regarded him for a minute.

He had a feeling that this was the true reason behind this invitation. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Madeline sipping her maple-loaded coffee, pointedly looking at everything that wasn't the principal. Well then.

"That depends. What do you teach?"

"What's open?"

Silence.

Romulus pondered that.

"There's an opening for Russian, as well as US History."

Alfred let out a sigh of relief.

"I teach . . ." interestingly enough, the man paused, as if deciding . . .? "I teach History, sir. Yes. History."

"Really?" Romulus inquired skeptically. "Do you have the credentials?" To Romulus, it looked as if the man was desperate enough that he'd agree to teach anything. Unfortunately, the world didn't work that way.

Alfred excused himself and came back with a manila folder. He handed said folder to the principal. Romulus opened it, important-looking papers greeting him.

"I have a degree in History from Oxford University."

Romulus choked, nearly spitting out his beige-colored coffee. He stared at the man, gaping. Alfred gave him a small, bashful smile that screamed modesty and humility. Madeline twitched and chose that moment to take a large gulp of bittersweet coffee.

"There's a certificate somewhere in there."

And sure enough, there it was.

More staring. History _and_ English? Alfred F. Jones was much more than met the eye, it would seem.

It took Romulus a while to regain his bearings. On one side, he could make out Madeline's pleading look. In front of him, Alfred tapped the table nervously. He also muttered something about paying the bills, but maybe Romulus imagined that.

Still. The man had a degree from _Oxford._

Romulus leafed through the papers—they looked legit. Official. It even included a background check conducted by the FBI and recommendation letters from his last job, as well as two other outside sources. Madeline also vouched for him earlier. The man was so prepared, it was suspicious. Romulus may as well have walked into a trap—no, an ambush. Yes. Ambush was a better-fitting word, he thought as he took in the siblings' identical facial expressions of hope. It was cute. Why couldn't Feli and Lovi get along like that? Romulus pursed his lips into a pout, the one that caused Aldrich to call him idiot on almost a daily basis.

Well. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. Maybe this man's enthusiasm will rub off on the students—they were all rather grouchy and groggy in the morning.

Cazzo. Why not?

Romulus grinned.

"Congratulations on your new job, Alfred. You start in a week."

 **A/N: Lol this is fun to write. I'll get to write more come winter vacation . . . being a college student in November is not fun, not fun at all XD**

 **What do you guys think of Madeline now?**

 **Favorite quote?**

 **Thoughts in general?**

 **You know, these questions are an attempt to get more people to review, and it is not working.**

 _Le Dictionary:_

For being a military hero, you can sure be an idiot! (French)

Cazzo—Fuck (Italian)


End file.
